Home Again
by nelliesbones
Summary: She touched him as if he was fragile, and maybe she was right... What happens when Booth comes home? Spoilerfree, warmhearted, no baby ducks involved.


_Remember me? It's been a while._

_Thanks to Tracy aka Some1tookmyname for beta and comments like "Is her vagina a vacuum cleaner?"_

HOME AGAIN

"_Home... Where is that exactly?"_

This wasn't his home.

It was a house full of his stuff – granted, a big and nice house full of his stuff – but it wasn't his home. He had no idea where the bathroom was and what their bedroom looked like. Wasn't that something one should know about their home?

His chest hurt as he tried to smile for her.

"It's amazing, Bones, really. I love it."

Booth looked around in the spacious living room, wondering how the hell you switch from "surviving" back to "living" and if it was really time to leave the survivor mode behind.

Her chest hurt, as he tried to smile for her.

_No, you don't love it, you barely know it, but give it time, let it heal, it will be okay, we will be fine, don't pretend to be so strong when you're not, I've missed you so much, I still do..._

"Booth..."

His eyes flew to hers, and for the fraction of a moment, she found something dark and candid in them.

"Bones. Please..."

It was a whisper, but it was enough. She took one more step in his direction and clutched his hand.

"Don't pretend. This is me, Booth. _Us_."

He squeezed his eyes shut, so hard that little sparkles danced behind his closed eyelids. So hard that he could almost feel it. Taking a deep breath, he searched for a truth, something he could offer her. When he opened his eyes again, she was still looking at him.

"I like the jukebox."

A smile, so soft and relieved spread out on her face.

"That's enough for the moment. Give it time, Booth. You found our last home, I found this one."

Home... Where was that exactly?

-BONES-

Booth was angry.

Mad. Pissed off. Fucking fuming.

The anger was boiling in his head, eating away his peace of mind. He didn't consider himself a good man per se, even if Brennan did, but he knew he had done good things in life. Had done bad things as well, but his cosmic balance sheet should look pretty fine by now.

He had never been on the wrong side of the law before.

Okay, there might have been a gray zone when they had worked against Pelant and maybe in truth it hadn't even been gray anymore, but Booth had never worn that orange jumpsuit before, had never seen another cop looking at him in hateful disgust.

The system he believed in had turned against him.

He was a victim.

_A victim._

He hadn't been a victim ever since he had been strong enough to block his father's fist before it could deliver the punch.

He had been a soldier, an agent, a partner, a friend, a father. A husband (finally, at last). A victim? No, he wasn't a victim.

Except that he was.

The bathroom mirror looked unfamiliar, and Booth tapped the shiny surface with his knuckles. Was that his face staring back at him with dark eyes? He cupped his chin and the roughness of his beard was a match for the roughness of his palm; a match for the roughness that he felt inside.

He found his toothbrush in the ridiculous toothbrush holder that looked like a seashell. Traced the name on it with his fingers. Temperance. Finally, a smile.

"The ugliest thing in the whole damn house must survive doomsday. Figures."

The toothbrush was new, he noticed it immediately. It felt strange in his mouth, hard and too clean. Booth tried not to think about it; tried not to think about his bed he'd never slept in and the coffee machine he'd never used in the morning.

A toothbrush song he didn't know was printed out and taped to the tiles next to the sink.

"Brush, brush, brush your teeth.  
>Brush them everyday.<br>We put toothpaste on our brush  
>to help stop tooth decay."<p>

Another source for his anger: He had missed three months of his daughter's life. Three precious months of growing and learning and playing.

Again.

Booth spit out with a sigh and cupped some water in his hand to rinse his mouth. He could hear Brennan rummaging around in the bedroom; her soft footfalls, the sound of fabric against fabric, the blinds being closed.

She had done an amazing job of picking up the pieces of their shattered home and turning them into something new. Something else to build their life upon.

She had done even more than that. She had killed a man. For him. Booth didn't even want to think about her pulling the trigger.

Another sigh, and he turned right, switching the bathroom light off.

There she was. Beauty and honesty and always, always stronger than she looked.

The bedroom was new and still unfamiliar, but the sight of Brennan preparing herself for the night was something he knew by heart.

"Christine asleep again?"

"Yes. She just wanted to make sure you were still here."

He cursed silently.

"I hate that she's mixed up in this."

Brennan's face softened.

"She's three years old, Booth. She will be fine. You're alive, you're back and we're together. Trust me, our daughter will be fine."

"Listen, Bones, we have to get to the bottom of this and we have to do it soon. I'm so tired of playing this game. Ouch..."

His face twisted in pain, as he tried to pull his shirt over his head. In an instant, she was by his side.

"What are you doing? Your coracohumeral ligament is strained, Booth. Let me help you."

"No, I don't want you to get all 'cocoa humerous' on me."

"Please..."

And for the first time in three months, she removed his shirt, unveiled the body she knew so well. This time, it was different, though. Ugly purple bruises were covering his chest, and Brennan inhaled sharply – just like he knew she would.

"Booth..."

"I'm fine. It just hurts when I breathe, that's all."

Her fingertips were cool, as they traced the battered skin; touched it not like an anthropologist, but like a lover would do, and if a touch had ever healed before, hers might have done. Lowering her head, she breathed a featherlight kiss over each bruise.

When she looked up at him again, he could see tears in her big blue eyes. It was as if her emotions triggered his own, and for the first time in months, Booth remembered how to feel.

He took a deep breath, but choked on it. "Bones..."

"I won't hurt you. I promise this won't hurt a bit."

Her voice was a whisper in the half-lit room, and then she was close, oh so close to him. With shut eyes, he could smell her; could smell her shampoo and the scent of her skin.

She touched him as if he was fragile, and maybe she was right.

Her palm cupped his nape, drawing him even closer, enveloping him in her warmth; the kind of warmth that had always been stronger than every pain.

And then her lips were on his and she kissed him. It was soft at first, tender and almost careful. Her mouth saying "hello" and "I've missed you" to his. His mouth answering ("Oh, yes!"), answering her call. Tongues made contact.

Booth groaned deep in his chest, as arousal shot through his veins. He wanted her, had always wanted her on every level humanly possible, but just when he grabbed her hips to pull her really close, Brennan retreated.

"Just to be clear, we are not using sex to avoid talking. This is not about forgetting the bad things, but about remembering the good stuff."

He looked at her, slightly flabbergasted, wondering when this woman had become so good at walking through a minefield of emotions. Raising his hand, he stroked her hair before eventually cupping her cheek. Had it always been so soft?

"I want the good stuff. Yes."

She smiled, sweetly, walking him towards the bed. Their lips met anew, and she lowered him to the mattress ever so gently. The second before she followed, Booth noticed the new mattress under his back, registered it as odd, but then Brennan was on top of him and his senses were awash in everything beloved and familiar.

Forget the mattress. Screw the toothbrush and coffee machine! Screw the stupid FBI!

It didn't really matter anymore, not when her weight was grounding him, not when her silky hair fell like a curtain over his face as she bent down to kiss him, just like it had done a thousand wonderful times before.

His hands swept under her shirt, finding skin he had missed so much, and she made that tiny little sound in the back of her throat.

Just like always.

"God, I've missed you, I've missed you so much."

She was kissing him in earnest now, and somewhere in between, heat was building. Between her thighs, she could feel him growing, responding to her need. Careful not to put too much pressure on his injured torso, Brennan slowly rotated her hips. Earned a gasp. Did it again.

Throwing caution in the wind, Booth pulled her down, wrapping her into a tight embrace. She squeaked adorably, trying to mind his bruises, but he ignored her.

"My wife. My wonderful wife."

"My stubborn husband."

"You blackmailed a federal prosecutor even though I told you not to. Who's the stubborn one?"

He knew that she had been right, though. Had it been her, he would have done the very same thing. Her face was serious, when she sat up to met his eyes.

"Booth... You'd die for me, you'd kill for me. Remember how you once told me? I... I don't want that. What I want is for you to live with me."

Minefield of emotions.

Boom.

He pulled her down roughly.

"Why are you so smart?"

"One of us has to-"

She was cut off with a kiss, and the fire was right back. Three months. Three months and a minefield of emotions.

Clothes were discarded and forgotten, kisses went deeper as a husband found his way back to his wife. They were clumsy in their haste, and the long separation made their reunion raw and dazzling.

A moment of shyness, as she was lying naked beside him; a second of unease as her fingers traced the three month old scar tissue on his chest.

As he entered her, as he was thrown into a whirlwind of love and longing and joy, her bright eyes bore into his and her gaze anchored him in the moment. And as she tensed and shuddered in his arms, crying out his name, he felt almost whole again.

She was so beautiful and soft and open and his, his, his. The release was so powerful that it knocked the breath out of his lungs.

Then, afterwards, when she pulled him into her arms, peace settled down right next to his calming heart.

This, this exactly was home.

It was her.

Home was not a house, was not walls and wooden floor, was neither cement nor concrete.

Home was the scent of her hair and the sound of her laughter. Home was cartoons with Christine, a shared glass of wine in the evening and falling asleep next to the woman he loved.

Brennan's lips, soft and sore from his kisses, brushed his rough cheek one last time for the night, as she whispered, "Welcome home, Booth."

-BONES-

As the day breathed its last minute, husband and wife dared to succumb to the heavy pull of sleep, unaware of the pain the next day would bring; of the lance to the heart.

And it was good that they didn't know because oblivion is a bliss and for one moment in time, life was perfect.

The End.

_RIP, baby duck._


End file.
